Just one world war after another.
She had a sudden mental image of Émile Legrand in the trenches, and Lucie Maréchal surviving underground.
One foot in front of the other.
In an effort to fend off sleepiness, Rosalyn went over what she knew about Champagne the region, and champagne the wine. After Hugh had taken pity on her and offered her a job as a wine rep, she had taken classes in viticulture at night school.
She had learned that the region of Champagne was tightly controlled by panels of representatives who dictated everything from when the grapes were ready for harvest to how much inventory each winemaker must keep on hand for reserve, how much they were allowed to sell, and even the use of pesticides.
Le champagne vient de la Champagne; champagne (the drink) comes from the (region of) Champagne. Those who loved the bubbly concoction waxed on about the contrast of the masculine with the feminine: the region’s chalky, difficult soil giving rise to one of the world’s most delicate beverages. Rosalyn had also learned that a series of international treaties meant that the French owned the designation “champagne” and had a coronary whenever people outside the geographical region applied the term to their sparkling wines. The U.S. hadn’t signed on to the treaties at the time due to Prohibition, leading to a persistent sense of resentment among the Champenois.
At long last, Rosalyn spotted a small sign: COCHET.
Emma Kinsley hadn’t been kidding: there wasn’t much to it. Surrounded by farmers’ fields, the town consisted of a collection of houses, an old stone church, a mairie—a town hall—a small school, a grocery store, and a mechanic’s shop, all of which were shuttered.
Rosalyn kept her eyes peeled for the address of Gaspard Blé’s gîte, but before she knew it, she had left Cochet behind. She realized this not only because she was once again surrounded by fields, but also because French town limits were indicated by a road sign with the name of the town bisected by a huge red line: a vivid indication that you were no longer in the town.
Having continued until coming to a small turnout, Rosalyn carefully navigated a change of direction—no small feat given the deep irrigation ditches that ran along both sides of the narrow road, which had neither bike lanes nor shoulders. She had been warned that the French drove fast on these rural highways. Flustered, she made her many-pointed turn as quickly as possible, and headed back into Cochet.
Finally, she spotted Blé’s address at a sharp turn in the road. She proceeded slowly down a gravel lane, her tires popping and spitting, until she reached a courtyard surrounded by several disappointingly modern buildings, not unlike what she might have seen in Napa. There were no lights on, and no cars in the lot. A building to the left sported a large sign: BLÉ CHAMPAGNE/SALON DE DÉGUSTATION/TASTING ROOM. A building to the right had a small entryway with a glass door, and as the headlights illuminated within, she could see signs over the interior doors: CHAMBRE CHARDONNAY, CHAMBRE PINOT MEUNIER.
Fingers numbed by the cold, she struggled to input the code on the electronic keypad to the left of the entry, praying it wouldn’t lock her out if she got the password wrong too many times, like her bank’s ATM seemed to enjoy doing. Clearly there was no hotel in Cochet, and now that she realized just how cold it was, sleeping in the car was not an option.
Success. The door buzzed, and she entered into a blessedly warm tiled foyer.
Rosalyn opened the door to Chambre Chardonnay and flicked on the lights to reveal a large room with a tiled floor and pristine cream-colored walls. Near the entry stood a tall chest of drawers and a round oak table with four chairs, and at the other end a double bed and two nightstands. There was an en suite bathroom with a large shower and a separate toilet room, as well as an empty closet with shelves and a rod.
That was it. Nice, and roomy, but . . . sterile.
One large window would look out onto the courtyard and parking area, Rosalyn imagined, except that a rolling shutter was closed over it, the type shop owners used to keep thieves at bay. A button on one side of the window presumably operated the shutters, but no matter how she pressed it, nothing happened. Despite the bright overhead lights, the room felt dark, almost cavelike.
On the table was a bottle of champagne, atop a note written in a distinctive upright French script:
Dear Madame Acosta,
I am very sorry I am not here to greet you properly. Our man Pietro Santini will come if you need anything. His number is by the telephone. Please to help yourself to anything from the kitchen—and to champagne! It is located in the building next door. The code is 1914. The code to access the Internet is 2343sf532fhlik58089bxjk5.
Cordially,
Blondine Blé, daughter of Gaspard Blé
Waves of fatigue washing over her—it had been a very long travel day—Rosalyn propped the main door open with her purse while she unpacked the car, her ungloved hands freezing. After rolling everything inside, she pulled the door shut tightly and set about organizing her home for the next few weeks. She cranked up the heat, stashed her clothes in the closet and her toiletries in the bathroom, and set up her computer on the table, plugging it into an outlet to charge, using the foreign adapters Hugh had reminded her to pack.
Now what?
Rosalyn perched on the edge of the bed and ate half of another PowerBar, washing it down with tap water, wishing for junk food and a bottle of red.
She had been a stickler about her diet until Dash got sick, at which point she had alternated between eating nothing at all and periodically stuffing herself with junk. In her experience, hospital vending machines were stocked with exactly the kinds of rubbish foods that landed so many people in the hospital in the first place, ironically enough. In an effort to use this trip to modify her habits, Rosalyn had packed only healthy snacks. She glared at them now with distaste; eating well had seemed like a much better idea when she wasn’t hungry. At the moment, she yearned for potato chips, chocolate, the salty-sweet temptations of a PayDay bar.
What a rotten time to decide to be virtuous.
Hunger temporarily if unsatisfactorily sated, she kicked off her shoes and reclined on the bed. The quilt was filled with fluffy goose down, and she sank into its softness with a sigh, closing her eyes, grateful to be horizontal.
Unbidden, images flashed through her tired mind: the medicine cabinet in her little cottage in Napa; Dash in his last moments, pale and cruelly shrunken on the hospital bed; the way she had run from the room. She thought of how desperately she longed no longer to put one foot in front of the other.
She was weary. Depleted. Desperate.
In France.
A country apparently devoid of twenty-four-hour convenience stores.
Damn Hugh, anyway.
Chapter Eight
Rosalyn had come to know when sleep was a lost cause. After half an hour she climbed out of bed, crossed over to the little table, started up her computer, and opened her Internet browser.